The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Dark MonthThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Dark MonthAuthor: Algernon Charles SwinburneRelease date: June 7, 2006 [eBook #18524]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Louise Pryor, Paul Murray and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DARK MONTH ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A Dark MonthAuthor: Algernon Charles SwinburneRelease date: June 7, 2006 [eBook #18524]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Louise Pryor, Paul Murray and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: A Dark Month
Author: Algernon Charles Swinburne
Author: Algernon Charles Swinburne
Release date: June 7, 2006 [eBook #18524]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Louise Pryor, Paul Murray and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DARK MONTH ***
By
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Taken from The Collected Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Vol. V)
THE COLLECTED POETICAL WORKSOF ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
VOL. V
STUDIES IN SONG : A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS : SONNETS ON ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS : THE HEPTALOGIA : ETC.
I.Poems and Ballads(First Series).II.Songs before Sunrise, andSongs of Two Nations.III.Poems and Ballads(Second and Third Series), andSongs of The Spring tides.IV.Tristram of Lyonesse, The Tale of Balen, Atalanta in Calydon, Erechtheus.V.Studies in Song, A Century of Roundels, Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets, The Heptalogia, Etc.VI.A Midsummer Holiday, Astrophel, A Channel Passage and Other Poems.
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
By
Algernon Charles Swinburne
1917LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
First printed (Chatto), 1904Reprinted 1904, '09, '10, '12(Heinemann), 1917London: William Heinemann, 1917
First printed (Chatto), 1904Reprinted 1904, '09, '10, '12(Heinemann), 1917
London: William Heinemann, 1917
"La maison sans enfants!"—Victor Hugo.
IA month without sight of the sunRising or reigning or settingThrough days without use of the day,Who calls it the month of May?The sense of the name is undoneAnd the sound of it fit for forgetting.We shall not feel if the sun rise,We shall not care when it sets:If a nightingale make night's airAs noontide, why should we care?Till a light of delight that is done rise,Extinguishing grey regrets;Till a child's face lighten againOn the twilight of older faces;Till a child's voice fall as the dewOn furrows with heat parched throughAnd all but hopeless of grain,Refreshing the desolate places—Fall clear on the ears of us hearkeningAnd hungering for food of the soundAnd thirsting for joy of his voice:Till the hearts in us hear and rejoice,And the thoughts of them doubting and darkeningRejoice with a glad thing found.When the heart of our gladness is gone,What comfort is left with us after?When the light of our eyes is away,What glory remains upon May,What blessing of song is thereonIf we drink not the light of his laughter?No small sweet face with the daytimeTo welcome, warmer than noon!No sweet small voice as a bird'sTo bring us the day's first words!Mid May for us here is not Maytime:No summer begins with June.A whole dead month in the dark,A dawn in the mists that o'ercome herStifled and smothered and sad—Swift speed to it, barren and bad!And return to us, voice of the lark,And remain with us, sunlight of summer.IIAlas, what right has the dawn to glimmer,What right has the wind to do aught but moan?All the day should be dimmerBecause we are left alone.Yestermorn like a sunbeam presentHither and thither a light step smiled,And made each place for us pleasantWith the sense or the sight of a child.But the leaves persist as before, and afterOur parting the dull day still bears flowers;And songs less bright than his laughterDeride us from birds in the bowers.Birds, and blossoms, and sunlight only,As though such folly sufficed for spring!As though the house were not lonelyFor want of the child its king!IIIAsleep and afar to-night my darlingLies, and heeds not the night,If winds be stirring or storms be snarling;For his sleep is its own sweet light.I sit where he sat beside me quaffingThe wine of story and songPoured forth of immortal cups, and laughingWhen mirth in the draught grew strong.I broke the gold of the words, to melt itFor hands but seven years old,And they caught the tale as a bird, and felt itMore bright than visible gold.And he drank down deep, with his eyes broad beaming,Here in this room where I am,The golden vintage of Shakespeare, gleamingIn the silver vessels of Lamb.Here by my hearth where he was I listenFor the shade of the sound of a word,Athirst for the birdlike eyes to glisten,For the tongue to chirp like a bird.At the blast of battle, how broad they brightened,Like fire in the spheres of stars,And clung to the pictured page, and lightenedAs keen as the heart of Mars!At the touch of laughter, how swift it twitteredThe shrillest music on earth;How the lithe limbs laughed and the whole child glitteredWith radiant riot of mirth!Our Shakespeare now, as a man dumb-stricken,Stands silent there on the shelf:And my thoughts, that had song in the heart of them, sicken,And relish not Shakespeare's self.And my mood grows moodier than Hamlet's even,And man delights not me,But only the face that morn and evenMy heart leapt only to see.That my heart made merry within me seeing,And sang as his laugh kept time:But song finds now no pleasure in being,And love no reason in rhyme.IVMild May-blossom and proud sweet bay-flower,What, for shame, would you have with us here?It is not the month of the May-flowerThis, but the fall of the year.Flowers open only their lips in derision,Leaves are as fingers that point in scornThe shows we see are a vision;Spring is not verily born.Yet boughs turn supple and buds grow sappy,As though the sun were indeed the sun:And all our woods are happyWith all their birds save one.But spring is over, but summer is over,But autumn is over, and winter standsWith his feet sunk deep in the cloverAnd cowslips cold in his hands.His hoar grim head has a hawthorn bonnet,His gnarled gaunt hand has a gay green staffWith new-blown rose-blossom on it:But his laugh is a dead man's laugh.The laugh of spring that the heart seeks after,The hand that the whole world yearns to kiss,It rings not here in his laughter,The sign of it is not this.There is not strength in it left to splinterTall oaks, nor frost in his breath to sting:Yet it is but a breath as of winter,And it is not the hand of spring.VThirty-one pale maidens, cladAll in mourning dresses,Pass, with lips and eyes more sadThat it seems they should be glad,Heads discrowned of crowns they had,Grey for golden tresses.Grey their girdles too for green,And their veils dishevelled:None would say, to see their mien,That the least of these had beenBorn no baser than a queen,Reared where flower-fays revelled.Dreams that strive to seem awake,Ghosts that walk by daytime,Weary winds the way they take,Since, for one child's absent sake,May knows well, whate'er things makeSport, it is not Maytime.VIA hand at the door taps lightAs the hand of my heart's delight:It is but a full-grown hand,Yet the stroke of it seems to startHope like a bird in my heart,Too feeble to soar or to stand.To start light hope from her coverIs to raise but a kite for a ploverIf her wings be not fledged to soar.Desire, but in dreams, cannot opeThe door that was shut upon hopeWhen love went out at the door.Well were it if vision could keepThe lids of desire as in sleepFast locked, and over his eyesA dream with the dark soft keyIn her hand might hover, and beTheir keeper till morning rise;The morning that brings after manyDays fled with no light upon anyThe small face back which is gone;When the loved little hands once moreShall struggle and strain at the doorThey beat their summons upon.VIIIf a soul for but seven days were cast out of heaven and its mirth,They would seem to her fears like as seventy years upon earth.Even and morrow should seem to her sorrow as longAs the passage of numberless ages in slumberless song.Dawn, roused by the lark, would be surely as dark in her sightAs her measureless measure of shadowless pleasure was bright.Noon, gilt but with glory of gold, would be hoary and greyIn her eyes that had gazed on the depths, unamazed with the day.Night hardly would seem to make darker her dream never done,When it could but withhold what a man may behold of the sun.For dreams would perplex, were the days that should vex her but seven,The sight of her vision, made dark with division from heaven.Till the light on my lonely way lighten that only now gleams,I too am divided from heaven and derided of dreams.VIIIA twilight fire-fly may suggestHow flames the fire that feeds the sun:"A crooked figure may attestIn little space a million."But this faint-figured verse, that dressesWith flowers the bones of one bare month,Of all it would say scarce expressesIn crooked ways a millionth.A fire-fly tenders to the fatherOf fires a tribute something worth:My verse, a shard-borne beetle rather,Drones over scarce-illumined earth.Some inches round me though it brightenWith light of music-making thought,The dark indeed it may not lighten,The silence moves not, hearing nought.Only my heart is eased with hearing,Only mine eyes are soothed with seeing,A face brought nigh, a footfall nearing,Till hopes take form and dreams have being.IXAs a poor man hungering stands with insatiate eyes and handsVoid of breadRight in sight of men that feast while his famine with no leastCrumb is fed,Here across the garden-wall can I hear strange children call,Watch them play,From the windowed seat above, whence the goodlier child I loveIs away.Here the sights we saw together moved his fancy like a featherTo and fro,Now to wonder, and thereafter to the sunny storm of laughterLoud and low—Sights engraven on storied pages where man's tale of seven swift agesAll was told—Seen of eyes yet bright from heaven—for the lips that laughed were sevenSweet years old.XWhy should May rememberMarch, if March forgetThe days that began with DecemberThe nights that a frost could fret?All their griefs are done withNow the bright months blessFit souls to rejoice in the sun with,Fit heads for the wind's caress;Souls of children quickeningWith the whole world's mirth,Heads closelier than field-flowers thickeningThat crowd and illuminate earth,Now that May's call mustersFiles of baby bandsTo marshal in joyfuller clustersThan the flowers that encumber their hands.Yet morose NovemberFound them no less gay,With nought to forget or rememberLess bright than a branch of may.All the seasons movingMove their minds alikeApplauding, acclaiming, approvingAll hours of the year that strike.So my heart may fret not,Wondering if my friendRemember me not or forget notOr ever the month find end.Not that love sows lighterSeed in children sown,But that life being lit in them brighterMoves fleeter than even our own.May nor yet SeptemberBinds their hearts, that yetRemember, forget, and remember,Forget, and recall, and forget.XIAs light on a lake's face movingBetween a cloud and a cloudTill night reclaim it, reprovingThe heart that exults too loud,The heart that watching rejoicesWhen soft it swims into sightApplauded of all the voicesAnd stars of the windy night,So brief and unsure, but sweeterThan ever a moondawn smiled,Moves, measured of no tune's metre,The song in the soul of a child;The song that the sweet soul singingHalf listens, and hardly hears,Though sweeter than joy-bells ringingAnd brighter than joy's own tears;The song that remembrance of pleasureBegins, and forgetfulness endsWith a soft swift change in the measureThat rings in remembrance of friendsAs the moon on the lake's face flashes,So haply may gleam at whilesA dream through the dear deep lashesWhereunder a child's eye smiles,And the least of us all that love himMay take for a moment partWith angels around and above him,And I find place in his heart.XIIChild, were you kinless and lonely—Dear, were you kin to me—My love were compassionate onlyOr such as it needs would be.But eyes of father and motherLike sunlight shed on you shine:What need you have heed of anotherSuch new strange love as is mine?It is not meet if unrulyHands take of the children's breadAnd cast it to dogs; but trulyThe dogs after all would be fed.On crumbs from the children's tableThat crumble, dropped from above,My heart feeds, fed with unstableLoose waifs of a child's light love.Though love in your heart were brittleAs glass that breaks with a touch,You haply would lend him a littleWho surely would give you much.XIIIHere is a roughRude sketch of my friend,Faint-coloured enoughAnd unworthily penned.Fearlessly fairAnd triumphant he stands,And holds unawareFriends' hearts in his hands;Stalwart and straightAs an oak that should bringForth gallant and greatFresh roses in spring.On the paths of his pleasureAll graces that waitWhat metre shall measureWhat rhyme shall relateEach action, each motion,Each feature, each limb,Demands a devotionIn honour of him:Head that the handOf a god might have blest,Laid lustrous and blandOn the curve of its crest:Mouth sweeter than cherries,Keen eyes as of Mars,Browner than berriesAnd brighter than stars.Nor colour nor wordyWeak song can declareThe stature how sturdy,How stalwart his air.As a king in his brightPresence-chamber may be,So seems he in height—Twice higher than your knee.As a warrior sedateWith reserve of his power,So seems he in state—As tall as a flower:As a rose overtoweringThe ranks of the restThat beneath it lie cowering,Less bright than their best.And his hands are as sunnyAs ruddy ripe cornOr the browner-hued honeyFrom heather-bells borne.When summer sits proudest,Fulfilled with its mirth,And rapture is loudestIn air and on earth,The suns of all hoursThat have ripened the rootsBring forth not such flowersAnd beget not such fruits.And well though I know it,As fain would I write,Child, never a poetCould praise you aright.I bless you? the blessingWere less than a jestToo poor for expressing;I come to be blest,With humble and dutifulHeart, from above:Bless me, O my beautifulInnocent love!This rhyme in your praiseWith a smile was begun;But the goal of his waysIs uncovered to none,Nor pervious till afterThe limit impend;It is not in laughterThese rhymes of you end.XIVSpring, and fall, and summer, and winter,Which may Earth love least of them all,Whose arms embrace as their signs imprint her,Summer, or winter, or spring, or fall?The clear-eyed spring with the wood-birds mating,The rose-red summer with eyes aglow,The yellow fall with serene eyes waiting,The wild-eyed winter with hair all snow?Spring's eyes are soft, but if frosts benumb herAs winter's own will her shrewd breath sting:Storms may rend the raiment of summer,And fall grow bitter as harsh-lipped spring.One sign for summer and winter guides me,One for spring, and the like for fall:Whichever from sight of my friend divides me,That is the worst ill season of all.XVWorse than winter is springIf I come not to sight of my king:But then what a spring will it beWhen my king takes homage of me!I send his grace from afarHomage, as though to a star;As a shepherd whose flock takes flightMay worship a star by night.As a flock that a wolf is uponMy songs take flight and are gone:No heart is in any to singAught but the praise of my king.Fain would I once and againSing deeds and passions of men:But ever a child's head gleamsBetween my work and my dreams.Between my hand and my eyesThe lines of a small face rise,And the lines I trace and retraceAre none but those of the face.XVITill the tale of all this flock of days alikeAll be done,Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strikeThirty-one,Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and endWith the clock,Till the last and whitest sheep at last be pennedOf the flock,I their shepherd keep the count of night and dayWith my song,Though my song be, like this month which once was May,All too long.XVIIThe incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:But trulier had it given the truthTo shape him like a child.No face full-grown of all our dearestSo lightens all our darkness, noneMost loved of all our hearts hold nearestTo faroutshines the sun,As when with sly shy smiles that feignDoubt if the hour be clear, the timeFit to break off my work againOr sport of prose or rhyme,My friend peers in on me with merryWise face, and though the sky stay dimThe very light of day, the verySun's self comes in with him.XVIIIOut of sight,Out of mind!Could the lightProve unkind?Can the sunQuite forgetWhat was doneEre he set?Does the moonWhen she wanesLeave no tuneThat remainsIn the voidShell of nightOvercloyedWith her light?Must the shoreAt low tideFeel no moreHope or pride,No intenseJoy to be,In the senseOf the sea—In the pulsesOf her shocksIt repulses,When its rocksThrill and ringAs with glee?Has my kingCast off me,Whom no birdFlying southBrings one wordFrom his mouth?Not the ghostOf a word.Riding postHave I heard,Since the dayWhen my kingTook awayWith him spring,And the cupOf each flowerShrivelled upThat same hour,With no lightLeft behind.Out of sight,Out of mind!XIXBecause I adore youAnd fallOn the knees of my spirit before you—After all,You need not insult,My king,With neglect, though your spirit exultIn the spring,Even me, though not worth,God knows,One word of you sent me in mirth,Or one roseOut of all in your gardenThat growWhere the frost and the wind never hardenFlakes of snow,Nor ever is rainAt all,But the roses rejoice to remainFair and tall—The roses of love,More sweetThan blossoms that rain from aboveRound our feet,When under high bowersWe pass,Where the west wind freckles with flowersAll the grass.But a child's thoughts bearMore brightSweet visions by day, and more fairDreams by night,Than summer's whole treasureCan be:What am I that his thought should take pleasure,Then, in me?I am only my love'sTrue lover,With a nestful of songs, like dovesUnder cover,That I bring in my capFresh caught,To be laid on my small king's lap—Worth just nought.Yet it haply may hapThat he,When the mirth in his veins is as sapIn a tree,Will remember me tooSome dayEre the transit be thoroughly throughOf this May—Or perchance, if such graceMay be,Some night when I dream of his face.Dream of me.Or if this be too highA hopeFor me to prefigure in myHoroscope,He may dream of the placeWhere weBasked once in the light of his face,Who now seeNought brighter, not oneThing bright,Than the stars and the moon and the sun,Day nor night.XXDay by darkling day,Overpassing, bears awaySomewhat of the burden of this weary May.Night by numbered night,Waning, brings more near in sightHope that grows to vision of my heart's delight.Nearer seems to burnIn the dawn's rekindling urnFlame of fragrant incense, hailing his return.Louder seems each birdIn the brightening branches heardStill to speak some ever more delightful word.All the mists that swimRound the dawns that grow less dimStill wax brighter and more bright with hope of him.All the suns that riseBring that day more near our eyesWhen the sight of him shall clear our clouded skies.All the winds that roamFruitful fields or fruitless foamBlow the bright hour near that brings his bright face home.XXII hear of two far henceIn a garden met,And the fragrance blown from thenceFades not yet.The one is seven years old,And my friend is he:But the years of the other have toldEighty-three.To hear these twain converseOr to see them greetWere sweeter than softest verseMay be sweet.The hoar old gardener thereWith an eye more mildPerchance than his mild white hairMeets the child.I had rather hear the wordsThat the twain exchangeThan the songs of all the birdsThere that range,Call, chirp, and twitter thereThrough the garden-bedsWhere the sun alike sees fairThose two heads,And which may holier beHeld in heaven of thoseOr more worth heart's thanks to seeNo man knows.XXIIOf such is the kingdom of heaven,No glory that ever was shedFrom the crowning star of the sevenThat crown the north world's head,No word that ever was spokenOf human or godlike tongue,Gave ever such godlike tokenSince human harps were strung.No sign that ever was givenTo faithful or faithless eyesShowed ever beyond clouds rivenSo clear a Paradise.Earth's creeds may be seventy times sevenAnd blood have defiled each creed:If of such be the kingdom of heaven,It must be heaven indeed.XXIIIThe wind on the downs is brightAs though from the sea:And morning and nightTake comfort again with me.He is nearer to-day,Each night to each morning saith,Whose return shall revive dead MayWith the balm of his breath.The sunset says to the moon,He is nearer to-nightWhose coming in JuneIs looked for more than the light.Bird answers to bird,Hour passes the sign on to hour,And for joy of the bright news heardFlower murmurs to flower.The ways that were glad of his feetIn the woods that he knewGrow softer to meetThe sense of his footfall anew.He is near now as day,Says hope to the new-born light:He is near now as June is to May,Says love to the night.XXIVGood things I keep to console meFor lack of the best of all,A child to command and control me,Bid come and remain at his call.Sun, wind, and woodland and highland,Give all that ever they gave:But my world is a cultureless island,My spirit a masterless slave.And friends are about me, and betterAt summons of no man stand:But I pine for the touch of a fetter,The curb of a strong king's hand.Each hour of the day in her seasonIs mine to be served as I will:And for no more exquisite reasonAre all served idly and ill.By slavery my sense is corrupted,My soul not fit to be free:I would fain be controlled, interrupted,Compelled as a thrall may be.For fault of spur and of bridleI tire of my stall to death:My sail flaps joyless and idleFor want of a small child's breath.XXVWhiter and whiterThe dark lines grow,And broader opens and brighterThe sense of the text below.Nightfall and morrowBring nigher the boyWhom wanting we want not sorrow,Whom having we want no joy.Clearer and clearerThe sweet sense growsOf the word which hath summer for hearer,The word on the lips of the rose.Duskily dwindlesEach deathlike day,Till June rearising rekindlesThe depth of the darkness of May.XXVI"In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere."Stars in heaven are many,Suns in heaven but one:Nor for man may anyStar supplant the sun.Many a child as joyousAs our far-off kingMeets as though to annoy usIn the paths of spring.Sure as spring gives warning,All things dance in tune:Sun on Easter morning,Cloud and windy moon,Stars between the tossingBoughs of tuneful trees,Sails of ships recrossingLeagues of dancing seas;Best, in all this playtime,Best of all in tune,Girls more glad than Maytime,Boys more bright than June;Mixed with all those dances,Far through field and streetSing their silent glances,Ring their radiant feet.Flowers wherewith May crowned usFall ere June be crowned:Children blossom round usAll the whole year round.Is the garland worthlessFor one rose the less,And the feast made mirthless?Love, at least, says yes.Strange it were, with manyStars enkindling air,Should but one find anyWelcome: strange it were,Had one star alone wonPraise for light from far:Nay, love needs his own oneBright particular star.Hope and recollectionOnly lead him rightIn its bright reflectionAnd collateral light.Find as yet we may notComfort in its sphere:Yet these days will weigh notWhen it warms us here;When full-orbed it rises,Now divined afar:None in all the skies isHalf so good a star;None that seers importuneTill a sign be won:Star of our good fortune,Rise and reign, our sun!XXVIII pass by the small room now forlornWhere once each night as I passed I knewA child's bright sleep from even to mornMade sweet the whole night through.As a soundless shell, as a songless nest,Seems now the room that was radiant thenAnd fragrant with his happier restThan that of slumbering men.The day therein is less than the day,The night is indeed night now therein:Heavier the dark seems there to weigh,And slower the dawns begin.As a nest fulfilled with birds, as a shellFulfilled with breath of a god's own hymn,Again shall be this bare blank cell,Made sweet again with him.XXVIIISpring darkens before us,A flame going down,With chant from the chorusOf days without crown—Cloud, rain, and sonorousSoft wind on the down.She is wearier not of usThan we of the dreamThat spring was to love usAnd joy was to gleamThrough the shadows above usThat shift as they stream.Half dark and half hoary,Float far on the loudMild wind, as a gloryHalf pale and half proudFrom the twilight of story,Her tresses of cloud;Like phantoms that glimmerOf glories of oldWith ever yet dimmerPale circlets of goldAs darkness grows grimmerAnd memory more cold.Like hope growing clearerWith wane of the moon,Shines toward us the nearerGold frontlet of June,And a face with it dearerThan midsummer noon.XXIXYou send me your love in a letter,I send you my love in a song:Ah child, your gift is the better,Mine does you but wrong.No fame, were the best less brittle,No praise, were it wide as earth,Is worth so much as a littleChild's love may be worth.We see the children above usAs they might angels above:Come back to us, child, if you love us,And bring us your love.XXXNo time for books or for letters:What time should there be?No room for tasks and their fetters:Full room to be free.The wind and the sun and the MaytimeHad never a guestMore worthy the most that his playtimeCould give of its best.If rain should come on, peradventure,(But sunshine forbid!)Vain hope in us haply might ventureTo dream as it did.But never may come, of all comersLeast welcome, the rain,To mix with his servant the summer'sRose-garlanded train!He would write, but his hours are as busyAs bees in the sun,And the jubilant whirl of their dizzyDance never is done.The message is more than a letter,Let love understand,And the thought of his joys even betterThan sight of his hand.XXXIWind, high-souled, full-heartedSouth-west wind of the spring!Ere April and earth had parted,Skies, bright with thy forward wing,Grew dark in an hour with the shadow behind it, that bade not a bird dare sing.Wind whose feet are sunny,Wind whose wings are cloud,With lips more sweet than honeyStill, speak they low or loud,Rejoice now again in the strength of thine heart: let the depth of thy soul wax proud.We hear thee singing or sighing,Just not given to sight,All but visibly flyingBetween the clouds and the light,And the light in our hearts is enkindled, the shadow therein of the clouds put to flight.From the gift of thine hands we gatherThe core of the flowers therein,Keen glad heart of heather,Hot sweet heart of whin,Twin breaths in thy godlike breath close blended of wild spring's wildest of kin.All but visibly beatingWe feel thy wings in the farClear waste, and the plumes of them fleeting,Soft as swan's plumes are,And strong as a wild swan's pinions, and swift as the flash of the flight of a star.As the flight of a planet enkindledSeems thy far soft flightNow May's reign has dwindledAnd the crescent of June takes lightAnd the presence of summer is here, and the hope of a welcomer presence in sight.Wind, sweet-souled, great-heartedSouthwest wind on the wold!From us is a glory departedThat now shall return as of old,Borne back on thy wings as an eagle's expanding, and crowned with the sundawn's gold.There is not a flower but rejoices,There is not a leaf but has heard:All the fields find voices,All the woods are stirred:There is not a nest but is brighter because of the coming of one bright bird.Out of dawn and morning,Noon and afternoon,The sun to the world gives warningOf news that brightens the moon;And the stars all night exult with us, hearing of joy that shall come with June.
A month without sight of the sunRising or reigning or settingThrough days without use of the day,Who calls it the month of May?The sense of the name is undoneAnd the sound of it fit for forgetting.
We shall not feel if the sun rise,We shall not care when it sets:If a nightingale make night's airAs noontide, why should we care?Till a light of delight that is done rise,Extinguishing grey regrets;
Till a child's face lighten againOn the twilight of older faces;Till a child's voice fall as the dewOn furrows with heat parched throughAnd all but hopeless of grain,Refreshing the desolate places—
Fall clear on the ears of us hearkeningAnd hungering for food of the soundAnd thirsting for joy of his voice:Till the hearts in us hear and rejoice,And the thoughts of them doubting and darkeningRejoice with a glad thing found.
When the heart of our gladness is gone,What comfort is left with us after?When the light of our eyes is away,What glory remains upon May,What blessing of song is thereonIf we drink not the light of his laughter?
No small sweet face with the daytimeTo welcome, warmer than noon!No sweet small voice as a bird'sTo bring us the day's first words!Mid May for us here is not Maytime:No summer begins with June.
A whole dead month in the dark,A dawn in the mists that o'ercome herStifled and smothered and sad—Swift speed to it, barren and bad!And return to us, voice of the lark,And remain with us, sunlight of summer.
Alas, what right has the dawn to glimmer,What right has the wind to do aught but moan?All the day should be dimmerBecause we are left alone.
Yestermorn like a sunbeam presentHither and thither a light step smiled,And made each place for us pleasantWith the sense or the sight of a child.
But the leaves persist as before, and afterOur parting the dull day still bears flowers;And songs less bright than his laughterDeride us from birds in the bowers.
Birds, and blossoms, and sunlight only,As though such folly sufficed for spring!As though the house were not lonelyFor want of the child its king!
Asleep and afar to-night my darlingLies, and heeds not the night,If winds be stirring or storms be snarling;For his sleep is its own sweet light.
I sit where he sat beside me quaffingThe wine of story and songPoured forth of immortal cups, and laughingWhen mirth in the draught grew strong.
I broke the gold of the words, to melt itFor hands but seven years old,And they caught the tale as a bird, and felt itMore bright than visible gold.
And he drank down deep, with his eyes broad beaming,Here in this room where I am,The golden vintage of Shakespeare, gleamingIn the silver vessels of Lamb.
Here by my hearth where he was I listenFor the shade of the sound of a word,Athirst for the birdlike eyes to glisten,For the tongue to chirp like a bird.
At the blast of battle, how broad they brightened,Like fire in the spheres of stars,And clung to the pictured page, and lightenedAs keen as the heart of Mars!
At the touch of laughter, how swift it twitteredThe shrillest music on earth;How the lithe limbs laughed and the whole child glitteredWith radiant riot of mirth!
Our Shakespeare now, as a man dumb-stricken,Stands silent there on the shelf:And my thoughts, that had song in the heart of them, sicken,And relish not Shakespeare's self.
And my mood grows moodier than Hamlet's even,And man delights not me,But only the face that morn and evenMy heart leapt only to see.
That my heart made merry within me seeing,And sang as his laugh kept time:But song finds now no pleasure in being,And love no reason in rhyme.
Mild May-blossom and proud sweet bay-flower,What, for shame, would you have with us here?It is not the month of the May-flowerThis, but the fall of the year.
Flowers open only their lips in derision,Leaves are as fingers that point in scornThe shows we see are a vision;Spring is not verily born.
Yet boughs turn supple and buds grow sappy,As though the sun were indeed the sun:And all our woods are happyWith all their birds save one.
But spring is over, but summer is over,But autumn is over, and winter standsWith his feet sunk deep in the cloverAnd cowslips cold in his hands.
His hoar grim head has a hawthorn bonnet,His gnarled gaunt hand has a gay green staffWith new-blown rose-blossom on it:But his laugh is a dead man's laugh.
The laugh of spring that the heart seeks after,The hand that the whole world yearns to kiss,It rings not here in his laughter,The sign of it is not this.
There is not strength in it left to splinterTall oaks, nor frost in his breath to sting:Yet it is but a breath as of winter,And it is not the hand of spring.
Thirty-one pale maidens, cladAll in mourning dresses,Pass, with lips and eyes more sadThat it seems they should be glad,Heads discrowned of crowns they had,Grey for golden tresses.
Grey their girdles too for green,And their veils dishevelled:None would say, to see their mien,That the least of these had beenBorn no baser than a queen,Reared where flower-fays revelled.
Dreams that strive to seem awake,Ghosts that walk by daytime,Weary winds the way they take,Since, for one child's absent sake,May knows well, whate'er things makeSport, it is not Maytime.
A hand at the door taps lightAs the hand of my heart's delight:It is but a full-grown hand,Yet the stroke of it seems to startHope like a bird in my heart,Too feeble to soar or to stand.
To start light hope from her coverIs to raise but a kite for a ploverIf her wings be not fledged to soar.Desire, but in dreams, cannot opeThe door that was shut upon hopeWhen love went out at the door.
Well were it if vision could keepThe lids of desire as in sleepFast locked, and over his eyesA dream with the dark soft keyIn her hand might hover, and beTheir keeper till morning rise;
The morning that brings after manyDays fled with no light upon anyThe small face back which is gone;When the loved little hands once moreShall struggle and strain at the doorThey beat their summons upon.
If a soul for but seven days were cast out of heaven and its mirth,They would seem to her fears like as seventy years upon earth.
Even and morrow should seem to her sorrow as longAs the passage of numberless ages in slumberless song.
Dawn, roused by the lark, would be surely as dark in her sightAs her measureless measure of shadowless pleasure was bright.
Noon, gilt but with glory of gold, would be hoary and greyIn her eyes that had gazed on the depths, unamazed with the day.
Night hardly would seem to make darker her dream never done,When it could but withhold what a man may behold of the sun.
For dreams would perplex, were the days that should vex her but seven,The sight of her vision, made dark with division from heaven.
Till the light on my lonely way lighten that only now gleams,I too am divided from heaven and derided of dreams.
A twilight fire-fly may suggestHow flames the fire that feeds the sun:"A crooked figure may attestIn little space a million."
But this faint-figured verse, that dressesWith flowers the bones of one bare month,Of all it would say scarce expressesIn crooked ways a millionth.
A fire-fly tenders to the fatherOf fires a tribute something worth:My verse, a shard-borne beetle rather,Drones over scarce-illumined earth.
Some inches round me though it brightenWith light of music-making thought,The dark indeed it may not lighten,The silence moves not, hearing nought.
Only my heart is eased with hearing,Only mine eyes are soothed with seeing,A face brought nigh, a footfall nearing,Till hopes take form and dreams have being.
As a poor man hungering stands with insatiate eyes and handsVoid of breadRight in sight of men that feast while his famine with no leastCrumb is fed,
Here across the garden-wall can I hear strange children call,Watch them play,From the windowed seat above, whence the goodlier child I loveIs away.
Here the sights we saw together moved his fancy like a featherTo and fro,Now to wonder, and thereafter to the sunny storm of laughterLoud and low—
Sights engraven on storied pages where man's tale of seven swift agesAll was told—Seen of eyes yet bright from heaven—for the lips that laughed were sevenSweet years old.
Why should May rememberMarch, if March forgetThe days that began with DecemberThe nights that a frost could fret?
All their griefs are done withNow the bright months blessFit souls to rejoice in the sun with,Fit heads for the wind's caress;
Souls of children quickeningWith the whole world's mirth,Heads closelier than field-flowers thickeningThat crowd and illuminate earth,
Now that May's call mustersFiles of baby bandsTo marshal in joyfuller clustersThan the flowers that encumber their hands.
Yet morose NovemberFound them no less gay,With nought to forget or rememberLess bright than a branch of may.
All the seasons movingMove their minds alikeApplauding, acclaiming, approvingAll hours of the year that strike.
So my heart may fret not,Wondering if my friendRemember me not or forget notOr ever the month find end.
Not that love sows lighterSeed in children sown,But that life being lit in them brighterMoves fleeter than even our own.
May nor yet SeptemberBinds their hearts, that yetRemember, forget, and remember,Forget, and recall, and forget.
As light on a lake's face movingBetween a cloud and a cloudTill night reclaim it, reprovingThe heart that exults too loud,
The heart that watching rejoicesWhen soft it swims into sightApplauded of all the voicesAnd stars of the windy night,
So brief and unsure, but sweeterThan ever a moondawn smiled,Moves, measured of no tune's metre,The song in the soul of a child;
The song that the sweet soul singingHalf listens, and hardly hears,Though sweeter than joy-bells ringingAnd brighter than joy's own tears;
The song that remembrance of pleasureBegins, and forgetfulness endsWith a soft swift change in the measureThat rings in remembrance of friends
As the moon on the lake's face flashes,So haply may gleam at whilesA dream through the dear deep lashesWhereunder a child's eye smiles,
And the least of us all that love himMay take for a moment partWith angels around and above him,And I find place in his heart.
Child, were you kinless and lonely—Dear, were you kin to me—My love were compassionate onlyOr such as it needs would be.
But eyes of father and motherLike sunlight shed on you shine:What need you have heed of anotherSuch new strange love as is mine?
It is not meet if unrulyHands take of the children's breadAnd cast it to dogs; but trulyThe dogs after all would be fed.
On crumbs from the children's tableThat crumble, dropped from above,My heart feeds, fed with unstableLoose waifs of a child's light love.
Though love in your heart were brittleAs glass that breaks with a touch,You haply would lend him a littleWho surely would give you much.
Here is a roughRude sketch of my friend,Faint-coloured enoughAnd unworthily penned.
Fearlessly fairAnd triumphant he stands,And holds unawareFriends' hearts in his hands;
Stalwart and straightAs an oak that should bringForth gallant and greatFresh roses in spring.
On the paths of his pleasureAll graces that waitWhat metre shall measureWhat rhyme shall relate
Each action, each motion,Each feature, each limb,Demands a devotionIn honour of him:
Head that the handOf a god might have blest,Laid lustrous and blandOn the curve of its crest:
Mouth sweeter than cherries,Keen eyes as of Mars,Browner than berriesAnd brighter than stars.
Nor colour nor wordyWeak song can declareThe stature how sturdy,How stalwart his air.
As a king in his brightPresence-chamber may be,So seems he in height—Twice higher than your knee.
As a warrior sedateWith reserve of his power,So seems he in state—As tall as a flower:
As a rose overtoweringThe ranks of the restThat beneath it lie cowering,Less bright than their best.
And his hands are as sunnyAs ruddy ripe cornOr the browner-hued honeyFrom heather-bells borne.
When summer sits proudest,Fulfilled with its mirth,And rapture is loudestIn air and on earth,
The suns of all hoursThat have ripened the rootsBring forth not such flowersAnd beget not such fruits.
And well though I know it,As fain would I write,Child, never a poetCould praise you aright.
I bless you? the blessingWere less than a jestToo poor for expressing;I come to be blest,
With humble and dutifulHeart, from above:Bless me, O my beautifulInnocent love!
This rhyme in your praiseWith a smile was begun;But the goal of his waysIs uncovered to none,
Nor pervious till afterThe limit impend;It is not in laughterThese rhymes of you end.
Spring, and fall, and summer, and winter,Which may Earth love least of them all,Whose arms embrace as their signs imprint her,Summer, or winter, or spring, or fall?
The clear-eyed spring with the wood-birds mating,The rose-red summer with eyes aglow,The yellow fall with serene eyes waiting,The wild-eyed winter with hair all snow?
Spring's eyes are soft, but if frosts benumb herAs winter's own will her shrewd breath sting:Storms may rend the raiment of summer,And fall grow bitter as harsh-lipped spring.
One sign for summer and winter guides me,One for spring, and the like for fall:Whichever from sight of my friend divides me,That is the worst ill season of all.
Worse than winter is springIf I come not to sight of my king:But then what a spring will it beWhen my king takes homage of me!
I send his grace from afarHomage, as though to a star;As a shepherd whose flock takes flightMay worship a star by night.
As a flock that a wolf is uponMy songs take flight and are gone:No heart is in any to singAught but the praise of my king.
Fain would I once and againSing deeds and passions of men:But ever a child's head gleamsBetween my work and my dreams.
Between my hand and my eyesThe lines of a small face rise,And the lines I trace and retraceAre none but those of the face.
Till the tale of all this flock of days alikeAll be done,Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strikeThirty-one,Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and endWith the clock,Till the last and whitest sheep at last be pennedOf the flock,I their shepherd keep the count of night and dayWith my song,Though my song be, like this month which once was May,All too long.
The incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:But trulier had it given the truthTo shape him like a child.
No face full-grown of all our dearestSo lightens all our darkness, noneMost loved of all our hearts hold nearestTo faroutshines the sun,
As when with sly shy smiles that feignDoubt if the hour be clear, the timeFit to break off my work againOr sport of prose or rhyme,
My friend peers in on me with merryWise face, and though the sky stay dimThe very light of day, the verySun's self comes in with him.
Out of sight,Out of mind!Could the lightProve unkind?
Can the sunQuite forgetWhat was doneEre he set?
Does the moonWhen she wanesLeave no tuneThat remains
In the voidShell of nightOvercloyedWith her light?
Must the shoreAt low tideFeel no moreHope or pride,
No intenseJoy to be,In the senseOf the sea—
In the pulsesOf her shocksIt repulses,When its rocks
Thrill and ringAs with glee?Has my kingCast off me,
Whom no birdFlying southBrings one wordFrom his mouth?
Not the ghostOf a word.Riding postHave I heard,
Since the dayWhen my kingTook awayWith him spring,
And the cupOf each flowerShrivelled upThat same hour,
With no lightLeft behind.Out of sight,Out of mind!
Because I adore youAnd fallOn the knees of my spirit before you—After all,
You need not insult,My king,With neglect, though your spirit exultIn the spring,
Even me, though not worth,God knows,One word of you sent me in mirth,Or one rose
Out of all in your gardenThat growWhere the frost and the wind never hardenFlakes of snow,
Nor ever is rainAt all,But the roses rejoice to remainFair and tall—
The roses of love,More sweetThan blossoms that rain from aboveRound our feet,
When under high bowersWe pass,Where the west wind freckles with flowersAll the grass.
But a child's thoughts bearMore brightSweet visions by day, and more fairDreams by night,
Than summer's whole treasureCan be:What am I that his thought should take pleasure,Then, in me?
I am only my love'sTrue lover,With a nestful of songs, like dovesUnder cover,
That I bring in my capFresh caught,To be laid on my small king's lap—Worth just nought.
Yet it haply may hapThat he,When the mirth in his veins is as sapIn a tree,
Will remember me tooSome dayEre the transit be thoroughly throughOf this May—
Or perchance, if such graceMay be,Some night when I dream of his face.Dream of me.
Or if this be too highA hopeFor me to prefigure in myHoroscope,
He may dream of the placeWhere weBasked once in the light of his face,Who now see
Nought brighter, not oneThing bright,Than the stars and the moon and the sun,Day nor night.
Day by darkling day,Overpassing, bears awaySomewhat of the burden of this weary May.
Night by numbered night,Waning, brings more near in sightHope that grows to vision of my heart's delight.
Nearer seems to burnIn the dawn's rekindling urnFlame of fragrant incense, hailing his return.
Louder seems each birdIn the brightening branches heardStill to speak some ever more delightful word.
All the mists that swimRound the dawns that grow less dimStill wax brighter and more bright with hope of him.
All the suns that riseBring that day more near our eyesWhen the sight of him shall clear our clouded skies.
All the winds that roamFruitful fields or fruitless foamBlow the bright hour near that brings his bright face home.
I hear of two far henceIn a garden met,And the fragrance blown from thenceFades not yet.
The one is seven years old,And my friend is he:But the years of the other have toldEighty-three.
To hear these twain converseOr to see them greetWere sweeter than softest verseMay be sweet.
The hoar old gardener thereWith an eye more mildPerchance than his mild white hairMeets the child.
I had rather hear the wordsThat the twain exchangeThan the songs of all the birdsThere that range,
Call, chirp, and twitter thereThrough the garden-bedsWhere the sun alike sees fairThose two heads,
And which may holier beHeld in heaven of thoseOr more worth heart's thanks to seeNo man knows.
Of such is the kingdom of heaven,No glory that ever was shedFrom the crowning star of the sevenThat crown the north world's head,
No word that ever was spokenOf human or godlike tongue,Gave ever such godlike tokenSince human harps were strung.
No sign that ever was givenTo faithful or faithless eyesShowed ever beyond clouds rivenSo clear a Paradise.
Earth's creeds may be seventy times sevenAnd blood have defiled each creed:If of such be the kingdom of heaven,It must be heaven indeed.
The wind on the downs is brightAs though from the sea:And morning and nightTake comfort again with me.
He is nearer to-day,Each night to each morning saith,Whose return shall revive dead MayWith the balm of his breath.
The sunset says to the moon,He is nearer to-nightWhose coming in JuneIs looked for more than the light.
Bird answers to bird,Hour passes the sign on to hour,And for joy of the bright news heardFlower murmurs to flower.
The ways that were glad of his feetIn the woods that he knewGrow softer to meetThe sense of his footfall anew.
He is near now as day,Says hope to the new-born light:He is near now as June is to May,Says love to the night.
Good things I keep to console meFor lack of the best of all,A child to command and control me,Bid come and remain at his call.
Sun, wind, and woodland and highland,Give all that ever they gave:But my world is a cultureless island,My spirit a masterless slave.
And friends are about me, and betterAt summons of no man stand:But I pine for the touch of a fetter,The curb of a strong king's hand.
Each hour of the day in her seasonIs mine to be served as I will:And for no more exquisite reasonAre all served idly and ill.
By slavery my sense is corrupted,My soul not fit to be free:I would fain be controlled, interrupted,Compelled as a thrall may be.
For fault of spur and of bridleI tire of my stall to death:My sail flaps joyless and idleFor want of a small child's breath.
Whiter and whiterThe dark lines grow,And broader opens and brighterThe sense of the text below.
Nightfall and morrowBring nigher the boyWhom wanting we want not sorrow,Whom having we want no joy.
Clearer and clearerThe sweet sense growsOf the word which hath summer for hearer,The word on the lips of the rose.
Duskily dwindlesEach deathlike day,Till June rearising rekindlesThe depth of the darkness of May.
"In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere."
Stars in heaven are many,Suns in heaven but one:Nor for man may anyStar supplant the sun.
Many a child as joyousAs our far-off kingMeets as though to annoy usIn the paths of spring.
Sure as spring gives warning,All things dance in tune:Sun on Easter morning,Cloud and windy moon,
Stars between the tossingBoughs of tuneful trees,Sails of ships recrossingLeagues of dancing seas;
Best, in all this playtime,Best of all in tune,Girls more glad than Maytime,Boys more bright than June;
Mixed with all those dances,Far through field and streetSing their silent glances,Ring their radiant feet.
Flowers wherewith May crowned usFall ere June be crowned:Children blossom round usAll the whole year round.
Is the garland worthlessFor one rose the less,And the feast made mirthless?Love, at least, says yes.
Strange it were, with manyStars enkindling air,Should but one find anyWelcome: strange it were,
Had one star alone wonPraise for light from far:Nay, love needs his own oneBright particular star.
Hope and recollectionOnly lead him rightIn its bright reflectionAnd collateral light.
Find as yet we may notComfort in its sphere:Yet these days will weigh notWhen it warms us here;
When full-orbed it rises,Now divined afar:None in all the skies isHalf so good a star;
None that seers importuneTill a sign be won:Star of our good fortune,Rise and reign, our sun!
I pass by the small room now forlornWhere once each night as I passed I knewA child's bright sleep from even to mornMade sweet the whole night through.
As a soundless shell, as a songless nest,Seems now the room that was radiant thenAnd fragrant with his happier restThan that of slumbering men.
The day therein is less than the day,The night is indeed night now therein:Heavier the dark seems there to weigh,And slower the dawns begin.
As a nest fulfilled with birds, as a shellFulfilled with breath of a god's own hymn,Again shall be this bare blank cell,Made sweet again with him.
Spring darkens before us,A flame going down,With chant from the chorusOf days without crown—Cloud, rain, and sonorousSoft wind on the down.
She is wearier not of usThan we of the dreamThat spring was to love usAnd joy was to gleamThrough the shadows above usThat shift as they stream.
Half dark and half hoary,Float far on the loudMild wind, as a gloryHalf pale and half proudFrom the twilight of story,Her tresses of cloud;
Like phantoms that glimmerOf glories of oldWith ever yet dimmerPale circlets of goldAs darkness grows grimmerAnd memory more cold.
Like hope growing clearerWith wane of the moon,Shines toward us the nearerGold frontlet of June,And a face with it dearerThan midsummer noon.
You send me your love in a letter,I send you my love in a song:Ah child, your gift is the better,Mine does you but wrong.
No fame, were the best less brittle,No praise, were it wide as earth,Is worth so much as a littleChild's love may be worth.
We see the children above usAs they might angels above:Come back to us, child, if you love us,And bring us your love.
No time for books or for letters:What time should there be?No room for tasks and their fetters:Full room to be free.
The wind and the sun and the MaytimeHad never a guestMore worthy the most that his playtimeCould give of its best.
If rain should come on, peradventure,(But sunshine forbid!)Vain hope in us haply might ventureTo dream as it did.
But never may come, of all comersLeast welcome, the rain,To mix with his servant the summer'sRose-garlanded train!
He would write, but his hours are as busyAs bees in the sun,And the jubilant whirl of their dizzyDance never is done.
The message is more than a letter,Let love understand,And the thought of his joys even betterThan sight of his hand.
Wind, high-souled, full-heartedSouth-west wind of the spring!Ere April and earth had parted,Skies, bright with thy forward wing,Grew dark in an hour with the shadow behind it, that bade not a bird dare sing.
Wind whose feet are sunny,Wind whose wings are cloud,With lips more sweet than honeyStill, speak they low or loud,Rejoice now again in the strength of thine heart: let the depth of thy soul wax proud.
We hear thee singing or sighing,Just not given to sight,All but visibly flyingBetween the clouds and the light,And the light in our hearts is enkindled, the shadow therein of the clouds put to flight.
From the gift of thine hands we gatherThe core of the flowers therein,Keen glad heart of heather,Hot sweet heart of whin,Twin breaths in thy godlike breath close blended of wild spring's wildest of kin.
All but visibly beatingWe feel thy wings in the farClear waste, and the plumes of them fleeting,Soft as swan's plumes are,And strong as a wild swan's pinions, and swift as the flash of the flight of a star.
As the flight of a planet enkindledSeems thy far soft flightNow May's reign has dwindledAnd the crescent of June takes lightAnd the presence of summer is here, and the hope of a welcomer presence in sight.
Wind, sweet-souled, great-heartedSouthwest wind on the wold!From us is a glory departedThat now shall return as of old,Borne back on thy wings as an eagle's expanding, and crowned with the sundawn's gold.
There is not a flower but rejoices,There is not a leaf but has heard:All the fields find voices,All the woods are stirred:There is not a nest but is brighter because of the coming of one bright bird.
Out of dawn and morning,Noon and afternoon,The sun to the world gives warningOf news that brightens the moon;And the stars all night exult with us, hearing of joy that shall come with June.